The Hero Isn't First Place?
by SamuraiSal1
Summary: In which America refuses to eat for a full day because he didn't place first in a 'Favorite Ally' poll. Cue Canada's not-worry. And maybe some sympathy-pancakes. Also includes denial of liking the UKUS pairing. Which America totally does.


**"The hero's only in third place?"  
"C-come here, America, it'll be okay..."  
"But that stodgy British guy that I totally don't have a crush on is before me and how'm I supposed to get him to like me if even the fangirls know he's too good for me and RUSSIA is ahead of me too, oh crap how the heck am I supposed to compete with a commie?"**

**Based off of Smileyimp's poll: "Favorite Allies," where America came in third place behind England and Russia. I dunno, just something about this really, really made me feel bad for America. (What? SamSal's getting silly? AGAIN? Ah, well, I think this account needs more general silliness. Or something.) **

**XXX**

Canada knocked on the door hesitantly and with mild annoyance, holding a stack of sympathy-pancakes in his spare hand. He just got a muffled "go away" from America's room, though.

That was the third time that day—within the space of five hours, starting at around 3 PM when Canada realized that he wasn't still asleep or being lazy—that America had refused any company or food. And honestly? Canada wasn't sure whether it was the refusal of food or company that concerned him more.

Especially since the reason America was moping—make that sulking—was so absolutely ridiculous.

"…America," Canada said, pinching the bridge of his nose for what must have been the fiftieth time that day. "Again. I think it's time for you to just let it go. Who cares if you aren't first place in a poll? It's just fan opinions and I think you're making too big of a deal out of this—"

There was a sniffle on the other side of the door. Canada sighed.

"Let me in. I know you're hungry, I can hear your stomach from here." There was a pause, and Canada sincerely hoped that America wouldn't make more out of his exaggeration than he usually did.

"…Seriously?" America asked, and Canada swore he could see his brother's shocked expression even through the door. "…I mean, just… seriously? No wonder you talk so quiet if your hearing's that good…"

"H…heh." There was an awkward pause, with Canada trying very hard not to laugh. "…And since I can," Canada lied, "Then you should let me in. I mean, you haven't eaten all day, and, no offense, but Sealand's official country inauguration is more likely to happen than this…" And Canada made sure not to add, '_You're being an idiot, and I'm the one who has to make sure you don't hurt yourself too bad over something stupid. Again_.'

There was a long pause from America's side, before there were muffled footsteps and the sound of a door unlocking. "…Fine…"

Canada looked very slightly in shock from the appearance of America, along with his room. To put it simply, it looked cleaner than it had in what must have been fifty years. (And since fifty years ago was when England came over and practically held a gun to America's head to force him to clean, that was really saying something.)

America himself, by contrast, looked like an absolute mess. Apparently several cities in the Northeast had recently changed their names to 'Nantucket.' And Canada wasn't really sure what the representation of his eyes were—probably Oklahoma because of their relationship with Texas or something—but there must've been a lot of red soil washing into the rivers because, dang, were America's eyes bloodshot. Texas, of course, was crooked, and the bags under his eyes had to have been a sign of blackening soil in Montana or something.

…Or Alfred F. Jones, not America, was just having a really, really bad day. As Canada didn't want to deal with all the consequences of his neighboring country, he sincerely hoped it was the latter. Then again, Matthew Williams wasn't exactly happy about that, either.

"I see you've, um, been cleaning up," Canada said after a long while, eyeing the clutter-free, spill-free and practically dust-free room. It was unnerving, to say the least. Especially since America looked—put simply—like a hobo.

"It's not done yet," America said quickly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He eyed the sympathy-pancakes (with chocolate chips in the batter and the top one had a face made from whipped cream and strawberries; honestly, Canada was just too nice sometimes) hungrily before snapping out of his momentary starvation. America glanced carefully around the room, seeming to pick a trophy case that still had some dust left on it. "I… I should start on that right now, so you can leave any time—"

"America. It's eight o' clock at night, and you look like you've been up since six AM. _Cleaning_. Without stopping to eat anything all day. I'm just trying to make sure you don't do anything stupid. Now eat." Canada's voice was laced with steel, and he none to gently pushed his brother into the desk's chair, putting the plate of pancakes onto the desk itself. Before America could protest, silverware was being put into his hands.

"But I don't…"

"Are you seriously telling me that you don't want my pancakes," Canada said, more of a statement than a question. As America just pointedly looked away from the desk, his brother, the pancakes and the computer, Canada assumed that the answer was somewhere between a yes and a no.

There was a long pause before Canada took a few steps closer.

"America, look at me," Canada demanded. When his brother didn't comply, he poked him in the forehead, right between the eyes, forcing America to at least look up at him long enough to glare.

"What do you want…" America groaned, trying not to feel irritated that he'd been coerced into 'breaking' his non-eye-contact.

"Just listen," the exasperated nation said, shaking his head. "You should really stop getting so worked up. It was just a poll, and just from fans. Not that they aren't important," Canada quickly added, feeling a little awkward to think that people who stalked his personal/country life were being supported, by him nonetheless. "Because they are. But think of the bigger picture. Does it really matter that you're in third place? You aren't even at the bottom of the list." Canada decided not to add that at least America had been on the list of Allies to be voted on—he, himself, had been forgotten. As usual. Not that he was going to get worked up about it. Honestly. America had the nerve to call him a wimp? (Though America usually used a bit more colorful expressions.)

"But… I'm the hero…" America muttered, eyeing the pancakes again. He snapped himself out of it, though, in an effort not to be swayed by pancakes. Even if they were delicious and made especially for him _and he hadn't eaten all day_— "…A-And the hero shouldn't be in third place," he finished resolutely.

Canada noticed that there were rather distinct pools of water in America's eyes, immediately worrying that there was flooding going on in some mid-west region north of Texas, but then realized that this was distinctly an _Alfred_ problem and needed to be treated as such. He sighed, and then switched from '_I'm obligated to look after you because we have the longest uninterrupted border in the world_' mode to _'Crap, my brother is crying'_ mode.

"It's all right, Alfred," Canada said, awkwardly using America's human name and feeling a little silly for doing so—honestly, they were nations and it was the _one_ _thing_ that made Canada any more special than the humans! Couldn't they just act like nations? "It's just a list. You'll be okay. I already made you pancakes and they're getting cold…" he paused. "And no offense, but you look like crap. Food would help, eh?"

"But Matttttiiiiiieeeeeee…" America whined. "Artie's in first place on that list! How'm I supposed to ever be with him if even Ivan's ahead of me? I-I mean, even the fangirls can tell that he's too good for me. So… so crap, what do I even do now? 'Cause I can't impress him 'cause he used to be a pirate and pirates are way better than cowboys and I can't fight Russia to even get second place 'cause England already told me I'm not allowed to re-start the Cold War 'specially not with actual nukes even if he's really pissing me off, and… and… and I'm freaking hungry but I still need to clean up my stupid room 'cause last time England was here he totally insulted me for like an hour and if he doesn't like my cleaning methods than how the freaking heck am I supposed to move in with him and somehow have colonies with him a-and get an awesome house with a white picket fence and-and my trophy case is still freaking dirty and what if he insults it for having too much dust on it next time he gets here 'cause it really freaking hurts when he just won't stop being mean to me, and crap what do I do if he figures out-"

"You stop overreacting and eat the _maudit_ pancakes, America," Canada cut him off, slipping back into using nation names, and, frankly, his tone of voice was terrifying. America flinched at what he knew very well was a French curse, and looked out-right frightened at the tone. Because, frankly? When Canada used that voice, you had to keep the hockey sticks as far away from him as was physically possible.

"I… I…" America stumbled over his words and felt the sudden urge to use his silverware. "S…shutting up now…" he said in a quieter voice, a little embarrassed at his rant. He carefully eyed the sympathy pancakes and tightened his grip on the fork. After Canada glared at him for a few more minutes, America hesitantly started to eat the first pancake. It was then that he fully noticed how hungry he was.

Frankly, Canada was a little disturbed at how quickly the entire stack of pancakes disappeared, and how hungry America looked even afterwards.

"…So I take it you're feeling better, then," Canada said cautiously, slowly lifting the plate away from America, maybe a little fearful that his brother wanted to eat the plate, too.

"…Maybe…" America said quietly. "N-Not 'cause of your pancakes… J-Just… shut up! I'm still really upset about that poll, 'cause those fangirls clearly don't know a hero when they see one!"

But the light blush on America's face clued Canada into what he really meant. '_Thanks_,' inner-America said, and Canada's eye-roll clearly said, '_Any time, bro_.'

**OMAKE**:

"Say, America," Canada said while making another batch of pancakes—as he was a little frightened to stop making them until that awful noise America's stomach was making stopped; honestly, it sounded like it wanted to eat _one of them _if it didn't get as many pancakes as it could—"That poll was on deviantArt, right?"

"Yeah, what 'bout it?" America asked around a mouth-full of pancakes (that Canada really, really, _really_ hadn't needed to see.)

"The artist… 'Smilyimp,'" Canada started. "She makes a lot of USUK art, right?"

"UKUS, actually—" America started, but immediately broke out into a fierce blush. "Wh… What about it? I-It's not like I look at any of the pairing drawings! I just like her art style!" America shouted, though his defensive tone was somewhat lost as he was still chewing.

"'Cause she makes a super-cute England?" Canada asked with a straight face, keeping his laughter on the inside for a moment more.

"How did you know? She gets him spot on!" America said, grinning for a second longer than it took for him to realize that he'd just openly admitted thinking that England was cute, both in and out of art.

But by then Canada was laughing too hard. And somewhere England was getting a sudden urge to face-palm. And Japan was somehow responsible for everything else, America just knew it.

**XXX**

**Honestly. It wouldn't even have been as bad if he was liked USUK, since he had a crush on England; no, it had to be UKUS. Great job, America. Way to be a world power! **


End file.
